


Through the Mist of Royston Vasey

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: League of Gentlemen (TV)
Genre: Alcohol, Circus, Creme Brulee, Dark, Death, Dominance, F/M, Fear, Fear of animals, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Humour, Jealousy, Lack of confidence, Mental/physical abuse, Misunderstandings, Multi, Naivety, Neglect, Nose Ring, Romance, Royston Vasey, Running Away, Second Person, Sexism, Small community, Special Stuff, Strong Language, Suggestive language, affair, body issues, life - Freeform, light - Freeform, local, mentor, missing person, objectifying, prologue to the TV show, sexual themes/situations, tourette's reference, vulnerable, welfare state
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:26:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: Somewhere in the North of England there lies a town. On the surface the town looks a lot like any other. It has the usual facilities you’d expect to find-a pub, shops, butchers, Jobcentre and a church. It even has an angelic looking war memorial to greet you. Look more closely however,and,like an oddity that doesn’t belong in a particular painting you’ll find that some of the residents are quite-weird.Peculiar would perhaps be a kinder word for them. Unfortunately for twenty-year-old Adana Tane she’s found her way there and is all too soon going to find out what it’s like...





	1. The Doctor & The Runaway

**Author's Note:**

> Hi,  
> Thanks as ever for all your support. I hope you enjoy this little visit to Royston Vasey. :)  
> Feedback would be much welcome. :)

When you wake you think you might have found the light you’d been searching for the previous night. The contrasting colours initially dazzle you and prove much different than the mist, which had poured through the gaps of the angel war memorial like a chemical weapon. Now that you can see them the sky and buildings are grey and drab-those are the best words that you can attach to them in your addled state of stiffness and drunken bleariness-but the sun seems to be in a misplaced location and it shines in front of you. At least that’s what you _think_ it does, until you blink and come to realize that what you’d thought to be the sun is actually a mop of hair on top of a long, concerned looking head that belongs to a man. The general effect of yellow isn’t helped either by the fact that beneath his coat the man is in a yellow jumper. It has both red and white diamonds upon it. He is crouched; you now come to see, in front of where you are sitting in a lopsided fashion upon the ground. 

 

As you shift into a more upright position you grimace-your trousers feel cold and damp, as if it might have rained in the night. You can feel spots of discomfort throughout you, as if the heavens themselves have opened and are threatening to overwhelm you. There are sounds of chattering, but no birdsong coming from a distance. Your vision draws down from the patchy grey-white sky to the man. His eyes are like how a child might draw rain- _blue-_ and at the moment with a sad sort of insistence about them. They pull you in and you’re not even conscious of the fact that you feel dizzy until his hands reach out to carefully steady your shoulders. 

 

“Oh dear me. Are you all right?” his voice too is quite like the sun-warm, _honeyed._

 

 _“I-I_ ran away…last night, I think, no I _know_ I did"- you sound more confident. “I ran away.” You pull insistently at where your maroon jacket has slipped down over your shoulder, determined that he should see none of your skin beyond your hands and face. 

 

“I think you’ve had a little too much to drink too,” the man says, not unkindly, “You shouldn't go overexerting yourself. I find that”- 

 

“I got a little cross when I heard some men talking in the pub last night,” you say, keen to show him that you wouldn’t _usually_ behave in such a fashion. 

 

 _“Oh?”_ the man raises an eyebrow. 

 

 _“Yeah.”_ Your jaw clenches and you can feel the metal of the nose ring you have moving about. “There were three of them. Three businessmen by the looks of it because they were all in suits. One of them, he had short, curly dark hair I think”-you nod at the man-“Was saying that if he hears another, _‘Spice Girls,’_ song on the radio then he actually might shoot himself. He said he could you know because he had a gun. He seemed quite determined for them to know about it. It scared a few people off I can tell you, but one of the man’s friends, Mike I think they called him, was just trying to calm him down when the other, Brian, started to say how there wasn’t much wrong with the _‘Spice Girls,’_ since they were all a bit good looking. The dark haired man told him to shut up and I don’t know”- you shrug a little consideringly. You’re wary that the man in front of you might be a friend of the man who was in the pub last night, but the boldness of the alcohol hasn’t quite worn off yet. 

 

“It just made you drink?” the man asks, looking bumbling because of the furtive little smile he has upon his face. 

 

You nod, muttering something like, ‘It was kind of depressing to hear a man objectifying women like that,’ but the man can’t be sure, especially when you give him a quick smile, as you recover from the ordeal of the previous night. Seeing you smile is like the countryside thawing after the snow to him. With a bit of a flailing of your arms and arching them back, so that your hands can be pressed against whatever door you’re by and support yourself, you stand up. The metal of the rings you wear on some of your fingers give off a jangling noise as you let go. 

 

“Oh good. You’re able to get up.” The skin by the man’s eyes crinkle and you try and go for an expression of polite inquiry as you stare at him. “It’s just that”-the man waves his hands about-“You’ve been taking a kip on the doorway of my surgery, as it happens.” He’s all embarrassed teeth for a moment. He tilts his chin down, as he looks uncomfortable. 

 

“Oh, I am sorry,” you exclaim, _“Doctor,”_ you add in a way that’s challenging, whilst you touch at the blue tips of your dark hair. 

 

“It’s animals though, not people. In case you were wondering,” the man informs you now and as your stomach does something funny in almost a reflex action you think that it’s typical you would run into a vet-an _animal_ lover of all things. Feeling a little odd you move away from both him and the surgery. He doesn’t seem to notice your discomfort though, for he takes a bit of a breath and has a think. “My job must have been why I wasn’t _completely_ taken aback by seeing you at my door. Sometimes people leave strays there. Not that _you’re”-_ he breaks off and grimaces rather than continuing the rather large hole he’s digging himself. 

 

“It’s all right.” You smile a bit stiffly at him. “I um…” You look up and down the street. You wonder whether you’re still under the influence when you see a man with glasses and a woman with long hair that falls over her shoulders wandering about naked and pointing into various shop windows as they go. You blink several times, but nope they’re still there.

 

The man who you’ve been talking to sees where your gaze has gone to and draws a little closer to you. “Happens once a month,” he murmurs to you conspiratorially. “Almost makes you want to give it a go doesn’t it? The way that they look so carefree with everything swinging about like that-not that, er”- the man’s brain seems to have finally caught up with his mouth and when you look at him and see his red cheeks it makes you want to suddenly laugh. The man, however, tries to rescue himself, “We’re not all like that though, if that’s not your thing. _Or_ like the man you heard last night.”

 

You decide you’ll reserve judgement on the matter, but say, “I don’t suppose you could tell me _where_ I am could you?” 

 

“Maybe we should”- the man looks worried now and nudges past you with a gentle politeness, but still you nearly topple over as you turn to look at him. Automatically, which you’ll later think quite impressive really for such a gawky seeming man, he nearly drops the keys he’s just pulled out of his pocket and steadies you by the arm. You flush as your eyes meet. He gives you a tight smile and then turns to the door. After unlocking with an encouraging, ‘There we go,’ he ushers you inside, beckoning you to go before him. 

 

You hesitate, wary of being anywhere that has animals and the faint smell of antiseptic that wafts to you doesn’t help matters either, but you get a hold of yourself and step away from the town into the bubble of the surgery. You feel like you’re underwater. As you look around you notice that the reception area isn’t a big place, but there is space enough for a few animals and their owners to both queue and wait in the provided chairs. A single door leads into the sole examination room. You sense that the man’s eyes are upon you and glance back around again. 

 

“I'm sorry,” he starts, “It just occurred to me that although we've been speaking we haven’t really introduced ourselves. I'm Matthew Chinnery.” He extends his hand to you.

 

“Adana. Adana Tane.” Like you do with everyone these days you don’t give him your _real_ name. 

 

“That’s a nice thing to be called though,” he says, none the wiser to your deception. "Has a nice ring to it." You smile feeling relieved and grasp at his pale hand. Tanned fingers brush against his long ones.

 

He smiles that rather tight smile of his again and withdraws from you, before he seems to find it within himself to step past you. At the reception desk he turns back to you. “Adana Tane, welcome to Royston Vasey.”


	2. Set Up For Slaughter

After deciding to open his surgery late Matthew had started to escort you to his place where he’d said that you could stay for as long as you needed to, whilst you got yourself set up. You’d commented that whilst you were grateful for such a thing you could do with a change of clothes. He’d taken you to a charity shop-luckily as well as your phone you'd got some cash on you-and you’d managed-using your magpie like eye-to find a couple of outfits and nightclothes-the latter being frilly and rather Victorian like, though not too bad. Buoyed and a little tired by your hard work you’d thought that the difficult part had been over with and had taken your intended purchases up to the counter. Matthew had followed after you. 

 

An old woman had been behind the counter, whilst another had appeared a moment later, as she’d carried two teas. 

 

“I haven’t made one for you dears,” the latter had told Matthew and you. 

 

You’d opened your mouth to reply, but Matthew had gotten there before you with: “That’s quite all right.” 

 

“ ‘Quite all right,’ is it dear?” the first woman had told him. “That’s good.”

 

“What did you say dear?” The woman who had brought the teas had turned her expression on her. “You want to pick a fight? She wants to pick a fight dears.” She’d looked back at Matthew and you. It had been possible that she’d already been taking bets inside her head. She had the look of an old seagull about her assessing the distance between herself and some chips. 

 

Matthew had let out a sort of faltering laugh with much shaking of his head and waving of his hands. “Oh, no, no, no”-

 

“No dear,” the first woman had raised her voice. “You bought these out and said that you hadn’t made them any and he said that it was ‘quite all right,’ and then I checked with him that it was.” 

 

“No need to be rude dear.”

 

“I wasn’t being rude dear.”

 

“You _are_ rude dear.” 

 

Deciding that you needed to be getting on with things-animals, though you weren’t keen on them, were relying on Matthew getting back to the surgery at some point that day after all-you’d placed everything down upon the counter and had dug in your pocket for your money. 

 

You’d faltered a moment later though when the woman with the teas had questioned, “You bringing this in? This is good stock this is. You suffered a loss recently then?” 

 

The other woman had muttered something about how you both could have brought the clothes to the shop in a bag and that would have been more helpful to them. 

 

Matthew had let out a blundering laugh at that. “Actually, Adana would like to _buy_ those clothes.” 

 

After much fussing and instructions to bring the clothes back to the same charity shop if they were no longer of any use to you, not to give them to the ‘Spastic charity shop’ because, ‘they wouldn’t know what to do with them,’ and to avoid bringing them in on a Thursday at all costs because of, ‘that Merill,’ you’d felt like you’d lost the will to live and had decided not to have a bag and just to carry your purchases as they had been instead. Finally you’d been out of the stale smelling charity shop, away from its two disorganized employees and back on the street again. Matthew had escorted you to his home. 

 

*

 

Not far from the surgery and with its plain stone bricks you’d quite liked the green door and the same coloured lining of the windows. You’d found the light wooden interiors pleasant and though the hallways were narrow the rooms themselves seemed to be airy and comfortable. Particularly the living room with its dusty orange armchairs. Lace doilies had lain on the side tables and at the end of each armchair, their intricate patterns a little tousled and twisted on the tables because of the way that several veterinary books had been placed down upon them. Some of the tombs had been open then; as if Matthew had come home the previous night weighed down with the pressures of finding cures for the animals beneath his care and had pored through them, working late into the night. An old radio and square television had also lain inside the room, which seemed to be staggering forwards slowly in time, a mix of old and new. 

 

Matthew had left you briefly to make sure that your room was appropriate and presumably devoid of anything that he didn't want you to see, though you’d wondered about such a thing later when you’d still found a dirty magazine beneath the bed. The woman on the cover had looked oddly enough like you and you’d decided, at that point, that Matthew must not have meant to leave it there and that it would surely be an embarrassment to mention it to him at that point. Filing the information in your head under, ‘Things of Interest,’ you’d tucked it back where it had come from and had just changed into a rather crinkled pair of baggy jeans, a black bomber jacket and a pale lilac t-shirt, which was slightly grandma like akin to the nightie, but not as bad as some of the monstrosities you’d seen in that shop. You’d hung the damp clothes that you’d worn before up in the bathroom and then, once you’d hurried back downstairs, you’d offered to go back with Matthew to his surgery and help him out with his day. It was the least you thought you could do for him allowing you to stay after all, but he’d given you a bit of a tight smile and had told you that no, that was quite all right. You should just be settling in. You’d had the strangest feeling that he’d been hiding something from you-something that was perhaps more ominous than the dirty magazine-though you hadn’t been able to tell what. You hadn’t known that he’d had a bad time of it the day before, _and,_ lacking confidence, had just wanted to keep any changes away from the surgery. He’d offered you the use of the spare key though and you’d once again thanked him for letting you stay. Just before he’d gone you’d managed to ask him, whether he’d wanted you to at least do any errands for him. He’d been on the cusp of shaking his head when a thought had seemed to occur to him and he’d mentioned that perhaps you could go to the local butchers and sort out tonight’s dinner if it would not be too much trouble for you. You’d smiled at that and had said that it was no bother, glad to make yourself useful. He’d left some money on the sideboard for the occasion and had then departed. 

 

The moment that he’d gone you’d felt ravenous and that’s how you come to be eating crumpets from a china plate that has a curve of soft lilac and yellow flowers upon its edge and drinking tea from a little chipped white cup with a yellow chick on it that you’d found in one of the cupboards-unfortunately all the cups seem to have animals on them. 

 

*

 

You head out shortly after breakfast, keen to see what you can of the town despite the fact that the bad weather has frothed back into a mist, making visibility generally difficult. You check that the door’s been locked securely-it would be a pretty poor way to re-pay Matthew for his hospitality if it wasn't-and make your way down the street, trying not to trip on the pavement as you go. 

 

Hands tucked inside the pockets of your new jacket you hear snatches of two teenagers who seem to drift out of the mist like the evil characters in the films they are debating. You come across the butchers. 

 

The shop bell gives off a tinkle as you step inside. There’s the sound of the rustling of a package and you’re quick to notice that one of the occupants-a tall, thin man with a moustache in a grey suit-is stepping quickly back from the counter with a clearing of his throat. You send him a bit of a puzzled, suspicious gaze, before you turn your eyes on the butcher himself. 

 

With a stripy red and white apron and a white cap on his head as part of his work attire you see bushy sideburns of ginger sloping down and the way that his blue eyes-glinting like those of a fish behind glass-fix on you makes you give a bit of a cough and look away again. 

 

You miss the way that the butcher nods ever so slightly at the other man and the way that they both get a bit of a wicked grin upon their faces. 

 

“I’ll just be off then.” There’s another clearing of the throat from the suited man.

 

“All right Samuel. I’ll be seeing you no doubt,” the butcher says now, and you think you see the suited man give a bit of a cheeky wink and hear him make a clicking sound, as he passes you. You wonder if-like you have done before in your life-you’ve walked into a situation where you _are_ the joke and think that this place is once again not as different as you’d like it to be. You realize then though that despite the sound you’d heard when you’d first arrived the suited man is not leaving with a package. Your eyes narrow as he departs. They fall upon the butcher who asks, “What can I be getting for you, young Miss?” as you move up to the counter. Up close the faint smell of chilled meats is a little more prominent and your eyes rake across the choice. “Not from around these parts are you?” there’s a note of laughter to his tone.  
You look up at him. The man smiles down at you in a way that unnerves you and makes you feel twice as cold. He’s like one of those anglerfish you think, drawing you in and then ready to swallow you whole. Hairs prickling you shake your head. You notice the way that his tongue protrudes slightly from his mouth and your eyes fix upon it for a moment, unable to get away from your anglerfish theory. The man seems to take up greater space at your attention and when you spot his lips curling up all the more you wrench your eyes to his instead. Cheeks slightly flushed a defiant look takes over your face. “Better make a decision then,” he murmurs.  
Your eyes go back to the array of cold meats-hams, a leg of this, a loin of that, all cuts, shapes and sizes-and you try and focus on them and not on the soft breathing of the man in front of you. You can sense the way that his chest pulls towards you and then back again like the relationship between moon and tide. You don’t know quite which you are and the slight humour that you can find in this nerve-wracking situation makes you bite upon your lip.  
“Something on your mind?” the butcher pulls your focus again. His eyes, which had been on your lips, dart to yours.

 

“No,” you get out quickly. 

 

“So it speaks,” the butcher is satisfied. His eyes do this funny little pop.

 

You frown and look down for a moment, before you adjust your stance and glance back up at him. Energy thrums between you and more grounded you feel increasingly confident about your role in things. After all, fish can be caught. “I don’t suppose that you could tell me _what_ Dr. Chinnery prefers?” You think that you detect the slightest eyebrow quiver. “It’s just that”-you hold the moment, sensing that his full attention is upon you-“I'm staying with him and I'm meant to be purchasing our dinner.”

 

The butcher looks thoughtfully down. “A relative are you?” He glances back at you almost challengingly and you sense that tongue ready to flick out over his lips. 

 

“A _friend.”_ You meet his gaze coolly.

 

 _“Ah._ I see.” The butcher nods and you can’t tell what’s going through his mind. “In that case then you’ll probably be safest with some of our best chicken thighs. They came from a bird, which was free range and you won’t find anything juicier I assure you.”

 

You nod stiffly, once again reminded of the lure that he seems to cast out. “That sounds fine.” 

 

You watch him work, taking note of the way that those long fingers make swift work of wrapping up your package and more importantly the wedding ring, which seems to gleam at you like sunlight behind a branch. Had you just imagined that something sexual had passed between you then? You know that just because a person’s married doesn’t mean that, that relationship is exclusive. Out of the darkness of your mind you see the rusted bars of a cage and then, on a dresser, an extensive collection of wedding rings. You touch at your own jewellery absentmindedly. 

 

The butcher diligently places the package where you can reach it and as money exchanges hands that foreboding, which is both full of an anticipation and an excitement catches you off guard again, as your fingers jar more than brush with his. Those blue eyes stare at you with intrigue about them. You wonder if he’d sensed any of your thoughts. 

 

“Thank you,” your voice nearly breaks upon those two words and he lets out a short, rich laugh, which makes your whole body feel as if it’s plunging down a roller coaster. Your lips part a little as you feel sick and you blink to come out of the sensation. Grabbing at the package you make your way in a dazed fashion to the door, as if you’re an animal mid-slaughter. Black like your hair the vision of a monkey on a chopping board comes to you. 

 

“It’s Hilary if you’re wondering.” That voice comes again. You let out a breath and the vision you’d had deflates like a tyre, before you look back at him. “The ‘H’ above the door stands for Hilary,” he elaborates, looking at you curiously. 

 

“I see.” Not quite sure what to do with the information and still feeling a bit peaky you turn back towards the door, missing the way that he looks amused by your response to him. 

 

Your fingers are just about to scrape against it and help get yourself out of there when Hilary asks, “May I enquire as to _your_ name?”

 

“It’s Adana.” You look back at him and your eyes meet, holding you in place with their gravitational pull. As they do so the waves rock and splash between you. You can’t tell whether you are the foam or the water. All you know is that in this situation you’re more than likely the prey. 

 

 _“A-da-ana,”_ he says in a slow, considering manner, stretching the ‘a’ out. You don’t know why he seems to find your name so fascinating. It's a bit different yes, but not so much so that it deserves that particular level of focus. You can still see the spark of his wedding ring. You don’t know why you find _that_ so fascinating either. 

 

Finally you manage to move again and depart from the shop. You can still feel Hilary’s eyes following you, but you miss the way that he licks at his lips…


	3. The Shark & The Monkey

It’s a couple of weeks later and there always seems to be a surprise lurking around every corner in Royston Vasey for both Matthew and you.

 

In Matthew’s case _you_ are the surprise, and he has begun to make a list of a few of the odd things he’s noticed about you, using said list as a bookmark and adding to it whenever he thinks necessary. He’s often been late to work of late because of the amount of time that you spend in the bathroom. At the beginning he’d dismissed it, as just one of those things that men have to put up with regarding the fairer sex and had a little chuckle about it to himself. Come that first Sunday however, which was typically bed sheet changing day in his house, he’d noticed a foundation stain on the pillow cover and sheets. It had been quite a heavy one too. He’d begun to look at your face and skin more closely, but you’d seemed awfully self-conscious about him doing such a thing and so he’d attempted to do it more slyly. He’d wondered what you were covering up, both literally and figuratively, for not only did you always seem to be wearing something that fell to both your wrists and ankles, but you never spoke of having any friends and family or wanting to visit anyone. Accustomed to the owners of his patients making small talk with him by now Matthew had thought it a little odd that you hadn’t mentioned anything. He’d known that you’d run away, but still thought that you might have hinted at a special someone or part of your old life by now. Not wanting to ask you directly about your reason for running away however just in case it made things all the more awkward between you, and thinking that he most likely wouldn’t get a straight answer even if he did, he’d tried to question you about your jewellery, hinting that he’d quite like to know where you’d acquired some of the pieces from, but you’d stiffened and he’d been able to tell that you were reluctant to talk of that too. _Yes,_ there was definitely something you were hiding from him and he found the way that he often saw you walking in straight, though a little wobbly, non-diagonal lines odd too. He’d been reluctant to push you though and so he’d started letting you do little errands for him to try and make you feel as useful as you’d seemed to want to be when you’d first come there. He’d even said that if you wanted to pop into the surgery some time and help out then that would be a feasible thing. Considering you’d volunteered to help him out there before though you’d been strangely reluctant to take up the idea. This had made him fall rather solemn, for he’d felt sure that through local gossip you’d heard about his disasters as a vet, _and,_ not wanting to talk about it with you, had just let you continue with non-veterinary related errands instead. 

 

In your case you’d jumped out of your skin a couple of days ago, _when,_ after you’d sent a letter on behalf of Matthew, the postbox had told you: ‘Thank you for posting a letter inside me.’ Whilst you’d tried not to writhe in discomfort when there had come a knock on the door of Matthew’s house one day and you, in the middle of preparing lunch for yourself and an as of yet unreturned Matthew, had opened it to find an older man with wild, tangled hair and a grizzled appearance stood there. If you hadn’t been sure of what had taken place between Hilary and you then this man had left you in no doubt of where his intentions had lain. Right from the moment that the door had been open to him his eyes had started undressing you with their gaze and assessing every inch of skin that they could make out like you were a product being priced. He’d also stepped a little closer to you than you’d felt comfortable with. 

 

“I was told about someone new coming into the area,” he’d said in his Eastern European accent, pronouncing ‘area,’ like ‘harea.’ You’d barely had time to wonder about who would have told him that, before he’d gone on, “You can call me, ‘Pop.’ We will be good friends you and I.” He’d made an odd spitting noise that had sounded weirdly of approval. “Good friends.” His large hand had gone to your shoulder. You’d grimaced and had been about to pull away from him when his eyes had gone to yours. _Dark,_ you’d been able to tell that it hadn’t been a wise idea for you to retreat from him. Instead you’d stilled. You’d worn a fluffy blue top that day-part of the second outfit that you’d picked up from the charity shop-and it hadn’t quite covered your shoulder up much to your chagrin, so, as he’d begun his administrations, you’d been able to feel the warmth of his hand, as it had stroked against your skin. You’d pulled a bit of a face. “I have heard you are in need of a good place to stay. I have good place for you. Yes, good place. You will come with your Pop now and”-

 

That had been too much for you. “Sorry.” You’d stepped back from him. You’d been lucky, if you could call it that, that when his hand had dropped it had avoided touching your breast. “You must have been misinformed. I don’t know who told you what they did, but I'm fine here-for now,” you’d hurriedly corrected yourself.

 

Pop had frowned at that. “You say that you are fine here for _now,_ that you need no place for _now,_ but why not move out now? Then you can be settled and live your life without having to move out later. You need a man eh? That is what you need. To straighten you out. To help you make good decisions. I don’t know _why_ you’d disagree with your _Pop_ the way you did just now.”

 

You’d been tempted to tell him that it was because he seemed like the sort of man to take advantage of every situation, but thankfully Matthew had chosen to come home at that exact moment and you’d left him to be the one to fumble his way out of Pop’s excuse for conversation instead. 

 

“Sorry about that,” Matthew had told you once he’d gotten rid of the slobbering man and had joined you in the kitchen. He’d tried to keep you on side. “We’re not all like that.” 

 

Instead of saying that you’d known or something like that though you’d told him, “It wasn’t you who said I needed somewhere to stay then?” You’d raised an eyebrow at him. You liked Matthew. He had the unfortunate side-effect of asking too many questions and looking at you in ways that you didn't like to analyse, but he was tidy, respectful of when you were trying to sleep and he seemed to carry an infinite knowledge inside his head, even if that knowledge was about animals that you didn't much care for. _Yet,_ despite those mostly positive points, you couldn't deny that he seemed the most likely one to have told someone that you needed a new place. You were taking up space in _his_ house after all, and though he’d been polite about you being there you’d known that even _he_ must have his limits. They’d been hinted at every time you hadn’t answered one of his questions to the textbook standard he’d wished for, every time that you hadn’t taken the bait he’d provided you with to speak and you’d thought that maybe he’d finally gotten fed up of your half-turned away stance and was trying to courteously find a way to get you out from under his roof. 

 

To your surprise though he’d looked shocked at that and perhaps a little hurt and you’d wondered if you’d gotten it all wrong. “Oh no, no, no.” He’d shaken his head. “I don’t know who it was, but it wasn’t me. I don’t mind you being here.” He’d smiled at you and you’d wanted to believe him. 

 

You’d spent much of the rest of the day though thinking about the matter. For if it hadn’t been Matthew who had told Pop then you’d felt rather stuck about who it could have been. The only other encounters you’d had with Royston’s residents had been purely about business-those charity shop ladies for instance. There had been nothing, but… _Hilary._ Hilary had taken notice of you hadn’t he? Your brain had gripped hold of that thread. Even though it had just been small talk there had been something there… _hadn’t there?_ A murky undercurrent of something, so dim that it was like being in a sewer-and you should know after you’d had to find a three-legged dog in one once-but it had been there. Yet why would Hilary have told Pop about you? Had they conspired together? 

 

You’d gone to visit your local butchers. 

 

*

 

Upon arrival you’d peered through the window rather than heading straight in and had seen that Hilary was busy with customers. You’d lingered outside and had become fascinated with the graffiti on the wall that had been nearby. 

 

You’d thought that you’d heard the sound of what was one of the customers leaving, but then a voice had told you, “We have to stop meeting like this or Mrs. Briss will be getting suspicious.” 

 

You’d turned and stepped back at that point, so that you’d been able to take Hilary in more. He’d worn the exact same outfit you’d seen him in previously. The familiarity of it and not having to raise your head too much from that angle to see him had made you feel more at ease. “Where _is_ Mrs. Briss anyway?” you’d queried. “She around today?” You’d peered up a little at the flat above the butchers and hoped for what you hadn’t known. Maybe a curtain to twitch?

 

“Oh, I think we both know what you’ve come for and it’s not to speak to my wife.” Like the blade of a knife over a piece of meat Hilary’s tongue had run over his lips, as you’d looked back at him and it had occurred to you then. He wasn’t an anglerfish, but a _shark._ A large shark with the way he seemed to be charming to customers and you, but was always one step away from devouring everyone, and it would be messier, you sensed then with the way that he looked at you, than any damage the teeth of an anglerfish could ever cause. 

 

Your heart had skipped a beat at that realization and you’d wondered why you’d just gone there. Why you hadn’t come up with a plan. “In that case then,” you’d tried to be bold, “You’d know that I wanted to ask if you felt the need to tell anyone I was looking for a place?”

 

“Might have mentioned it.” Hilary had been suddenly indifferent about the matter. He’d looked back at the shop and had given a little shrug of those broad shoulders. 

 

“Why would you do such a thing?” your voice had cut through the air. 

 

Had you imagined it or had there been a flicker of amusement at the corner of Hilary’s lips, as he’d looked back at you? “Just keeping an eye out for my newest customer,” he’d tried to make no big deal out of it. _“Besides,”_ he’d arched his shoulders back then and you’d quirked an eyebrow up at him, “Can’t be much fun kipping at that vet fellow’s place all the time. What if you met someone and wanted to bring them back?” 

 

“And whoever might I meet in Royston Vasey?” That energy had flowed between you again. Hilary’s lips had parted a little roguishly. The pair of you had known _exactly_ who you’d been talking about and the fact had both thrilled and frightened you. “I guess if that happened then I’d just have to make do,” you’d shrugged, before you’d moved past him. 

 

His hand had been upon your wrist instantly and once more he’d been like a shark, only this time one that had been surfacing. Shivering slightly you’d looked back at him, eyes almost afraid, but still somewhat daring. “Tell me if I can do anything else for you, won’t you?” He’d smiled at you and it really was peculiar when Hilary Briss smiled. It did all sorts of strange things to you. 

 

You’d nodded and gone on your way. Like a shark’s tooth in your skin it had felt like he’d still touched you. 

 

*

 

You’d been discomfited by your second encounter with Hilary and had decided to search for something more productive to get your mind off it. In the long-term you’d known that it would be a good idea to get a job, but had known that such a thing wouldn’t happen overnight. In any case you’d needed cash as soon as possible, what with you having to rotate your only three outfits and rely on Matthew’s generosity when it came to food. You’d also wanted to pay him for letting you stay. That’s why you’d ended up at the Jobcentre to discuss benefits and had, had to open up a bank account in Royston Vasey under your real name, so that they could be paid in there. That had been an experience in itself because the bank teller-of which there had been only one to manage a very long queue-had been obsessed with fortune cookies and had told you that if you opened an account that would be worse for you, you’d have a more favourable fortune. You could have done with all the luck in the world right then, but had turned his offer down, much to his chagrin, and opened up an account with a more reasonable interest rate instead. You’d also been told by the Jobcentre to do a restart course for the long-term unemployed, as though you hardly counted as being long-term unemployed, your last job having been brought to an abrupt end the same night you’d stumbled your way to this place, your qualifications were a bit erratic, as was your current situation. You’d hoped that by doing the course you’d be able to find a job more quickly and the day has finally come where you’re starting that course. 

 

“Hello.” You slip into the only free seat in the poster-filled room where the course is being conducted. You’re by a man in a blue and white jumper with scraggly long dark hair. Hunched over he reminds you of a monkey-an ape more particularly learning to walk on its hind legs. The association unnerves you and sends a pool of memories into your head. They float there like bleak lily pads, but you try and just focus on the man, _only_ on the man. 

 

He swivels around and stares at you in astonishment for a long time, his mouth agape, mind clearly processing. The spots on his face almost light up in sequence, as his senses load and finally a smile breaks out over his face. “My name is Mickey,” he announces with a big jerk of his head. You’re relieved by his friendliness. It lessens the initial unease you’d had upon encountering him. 

 

“Hi Mickey. My name is Adana.” You smile back at him. 

 

He grabs the thin strip of folded paper that’s on your side of the desk and struggles to write your name down on it. “A-dana. A-dana.” He shows you his attempt. Your name has been scrawled in writing that’s not joined up and is threatening to go wonky.

 

“Er, thanks,” you tell him.

 

He beams and if he really was a monkey then his hand would be outstretched expectantly for a treat. “You have to do it like that,” he informs you, “Or _Pauline”-_

 

 _“Pauline?”_ You practically pounce on him verbally. “Is that the woman who runs the course? Is she nice?” 

 

Mickey doesn’t get a chance to answer you though, for suddenly a loud voice bellows, “Hokey cokey, pig in a pokey,” and suddenly a woman who looks incredibly like Deirdre Rachid is making her presence known. “Good morning Jobseekers and”- she falters when she sees you. 

 

You give her a bit of an awkward smile. “Hi, I'm new here, I”-

 

“Got yourself a girlfriend Mickey love?” she ignores what you’d said completely. Her large lips rub together, as if she’s trying to light a fire. 

 

“What? _No!”_ Mickey glances at you and then back at the woman again. “Don’t be daft Pauline,” he mumbles, clearly embarrassed. 

 

“Don’t call me daft you lazy sod. She stinks of shit.” Mickey bows his head. “In any case”-her voice begins to rise-“Welcome Jobseekers to your restart course. My name is Pauline and some of you will know me, having done this course _s-o_ many times”-she glances at Mickey with an odd fondness about her face-“Some of you won’t.” She gives you an evil eye. You swallow. “In any case you all need to be told about Pauline’s pens…” the woman’s voice washes over you even though you try and clutch onto it. As if in a trance you close your eyes. Like water in the dark Hilary’s eyes come to you. Two blue pools of light. You see his tongue-wide and floppy-like a fish, as it brushes over the corral of his mouth. A moment later he tells you that if he can do anything else for you then you should let him know- 

 

You feel something sharp hit your ribs and blinking you comprehend that Mickey has just nudged you. Now however he’s staring at his desk, body hunched over. It’s then that you sense the shadow above you. 

 

Pauline looms, pen in hand, her large downturned lips threatening to engulf you like the mouth of a red-lipped batfish. You tense, as you feel apprehensive. “Now, already Jobseekers we have a case of someone _not_ paying attention. I was just asking you Adana if you were responsible enough to be taking care of one of Pauline’s pens, but it already looks like”-

 

“I'm fine. I’ve got it.” You practically snatch the pen out of her hand. “Late night is all. Sorry.” She doesn’t seem impressed by you, but she moves on. _Still,_ you can tell that you’ve got a black mark against your name and by the time that the day finally ends you’re pretty sure that she hates you. 

 

She’d told you that since a retail job was out of your league and you were a few barrels short to be working in a pub the only job, which was suitable for you was that of Bramble picker. She’d then further added to your humiliation by pretending to interview you for said job in front of everyone. 

 

“What skills do you think you possess for the job?” she’d done that thing with her lips again and had looked highly amused, as if she’d sensed your growing internal terror. 

 

“Erm well…” your hands had become clammy and had twisted about on your lap. When you’d taken a moment to respond any further Mickey had added to your plight, as he’d yelled out, _‘Big gloves!’_ in a sort of desperate attempt to help you. 

 

“All right,” Pauline had growled at him, as she’d swung her head, “That’s what you might need for the job Mickey love, not what she has.” She’d glanced idly down at your small breasts. “I’ll do you later. I'm doing Adana now.” She’d met your eyes then and those lips had worked once more. You’d swallowed. Mickey had fallen silent. 

 

“I'm quite er _active,”_ you’d begun with a clearing of your throat, so that you’d been able to get the torture swiftly over with. You’d seen Mickey nod encouragingly out of the corner of your eye, but hadn’t dared look at him in case Pauline had seen and accused you of being his girlfriend again. “Um, I'm willing to work hard. Since I’ve got an eye for detail I might be able to”-

 

“Not so much that you can spot the stain you’ve got in your hair,” Pauline had said in a slightly out of breath, but triumphant tone. 

 

“It’s meant to be like this.” You’d touched at the blue tips of your hair, as you’d felt a little self-conscious. 

 

“Well, good luck getting a job around here looking like that.” Pauline had stood and you’d wanted to ask her if she’d _seen_ the state of the other residents who had jobs in this place, but you’d held your tongue and had gone back to your desk. 

 

“You’re quiet,” Matthew notices at dinner that night. You pull yourself out of thought and look at him. “I know I had to cook, _but…”_ he pulls a bit of a face, as if to say it can’t be that bad surely?

 

“It’s not that.” You shake your head. “This is fine.” In truth his meal of chicken [that _he’d_ collected from Hilary thank God] mashed potatoes, carrots and gravy is quite nice. The mash is creamy and just the way you like it. It’s the way though that you can’t see things going as easily for you here, as you would have liked that’s troubling you. Just once you’d like an easier time of it. Hilary’s offer appears in your head again. _'Tell me if I can do anything else for you, won’t you?'_

 

You don’t notice Matthew looking grim from the thoughts that you clearly aren't sharing with him.


	4. Creme Brulee Blues

Two weeks go by and you still find yourself treading water. You’ve done a bit more of the restart course and you’ve been working on your CV and handing it out to local businesses, but there are still no signs of a job on the horizon. You _have_ been able to pay Matthew and your own way a bit more though with your benefits. 

 

One place you hadn’t dared go to hand your CV in had been the butchers. Hilary’s offer-not that you’re exactly sure _what_ he’s offering you, but you’re pretty certain that one mention of a job and you’d have one not long after-is one you’ve been trying to avoid like the man himself, opting for vegetarian meals or buying less fresh meat from the supermarket instead. _Still,_ you can’t help but wonder what would happen if you took up the offer and more importantly _what_ would be the price. Especially since the so-called help, which you’re receiving from the Jobcentre doesn’t look, as if it’s going to be much use to you. Pauline spends most of her time swearing and lowering your self-esteem. 

 

To try and make up for it and feel like you’re doing something though you do a bit of voluntary work in the charity shop-unfortunately you end up there on a Thursday because they’re short-staffed that day and you find out that the accusations against Merrill are well-founded. You try to organize her and make sure that she writes in that damn book, but it’s a thankless and unforgiving task. You find yourself fidgeting constantly with shiny buttons that have come from God knows where and ended up on the counter. The only thing that soothes you long-term is getting to go home that night and listen to Matthew as he recites various veterinary practices from the comfort of his armchair. It’s not what he’s saying that helps, but rather the constant tone of his voice. Even when he’s just reading things aloud there’s something reassuring about hearing his voice.

 

In between a paragraph you catch his gaze falling upon you and feeling uncomfortable you can’t resist saying, “I don’t know why you go over so much every night Matthew. You know it all,” to try and lessen the sensation. 

 

“Most kind of you,” he chuckles, as you twist your feet against the floor and sit in the armchair opposite him, “But it would be most impossible for anyone to know _everything.”_ His mouth looks particularly tight that night. You’re sure though that you detect a shimmering of light, as faint as it might be from what you’d just told him and the thought that you’d made him happy in some way makes you feel pleased. 

 

You have to spoil it though. “I don’t suppose you’ve got a job going at your surgery do you?” you can’t resist asking. 

 

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have wanted one,” he looks regretful to have said such a thing, but closes his book and puts it aside nonetheless. 

 

Puzzled your brows furrow. “You know that I'm looking for a job.”

 

“Yes, but at the surgery”-

 

“Why wouldn’t I want a job at the _surgery?”_ you’re exasperated now, not to mention very, very confused. Of course you’d rather not have to face your fears and be able to get a job elsewhere, but as that’s looking less likely to happen with every day that goes by…in any case Matthew doesn’t know that. Matthew doesn’t know the _real_ reason you feel so reluctant to be in his workspace.

 

“Oh, I think you know _why,”_ he huffs at you, before he takes his book with him and strides away. You watch him and as the fire dies from the draught of the door, which he blusters through, you can’t understand what’s going on with him. You wonder for a moment if he _does_ know the real reason why you wouldn’t want to work there and has been offended by it, but then you tell yourself off for being silly. He can’t know, you think, and if he did then he probably, as polite as he is, would have just confronted you or tried to fix you and change things…you would have liked him to try that you think, even though it’s probably hopeless now. 

 

* 

 

Matthew apologizes over breakfast the next day, of course he does, but it’s all a little _too_ polite, so you get out of there as fast as you can. Just because there must be _one_ place in this hellish town that wants you and you’ve recovered some of your spirit from last night, you go to put up a card on the noticeboard of the supermarket with a short bullet point list of your skills. You know that it’s a long shot, but if someone spots it and believes that you could be useful to them, someone who _doesn’t_ accuse you without explanation like Matthew, then it will be worth it you think. You hope though that along with Matthew, unless it’s to explain himself, then whoever that person is it won’t be Hilary or Pop because your contact number is at the bottom of the card and they’re the last two people you want to have such a thing. 

 

You step back and admire your handiwork when you knock into someone. 

 

“Oh sorry,” you’re quick to tell the man in the dark shirt, white skinny tie and jeans who’s stood there with his yellow-tinted glasses and hands inside of his pockets. 

 

“Oh, that’s all right lass. Used to people not noticing me by now.” You wonder who this man is and how come he seems even more depressed than you. _“He-y,”_ he stretches the word out now, eyes back on the noticeboard and in particular the card you’ve put up, “That’s some interesting skills you’ve got there. ‘Good at artwork and make-up application,’ he recites off the card, ‘So would be good in a theatre company or creative environment, I.T skills, willing to work hard…the stamina and physical fitness to cope with manual labour, farm activities…’” he sounds both intrigued and impressed by you, and the fact that someone else seems to recognize your skills and is not just being cryptic about it pleases you beyond belief. You beam and hope that he’s the head of a really important company or something. He shifts his position. “You see if I did one of those then it would probably be all based on music.” You look sideways at him, just as keen to learn more about him as he is about you, though you’ve never been able to play an instrument in your life-something that you’ve been criticized for. “Oh yeah.” He senses your attention now and tries to keep hold of it, before it fades away again. “I was in a band called Creme Brulee. We did Eurovision.” You open your mouth, _awed._ Eurovision is the ultimate gig for a performer and one you’ve often fantasized about taking part in yourself. “Back in ’81. Heats. You familiar with any of our songs?” Slowly you shake your head, hoping that he won’t be too disappointed by the fact and wishing that you _had_ heard of them. He looks like he might have been expecting such an answer though. A sad look of reflection comes over his face. “You would have. If you’d been around back then. Everyone knew me around here.” You find that you suddenly want to cheer him up. “Still, all digital now.” He nods at your computer qualifications. “I expect we’d sound very old and crackly to you, yesterday’s news and all that…it’s a shame though.” He rocks about a bit on his heels. “People like you not knowing who we are. It’s a shit business,” his voice rises. His hands scrunch up inside the pockets of his jeans and he gives you a bit of a grimace as he sways back and for. 

 

Suddenly you have an idea. _“Well,”_ you tell him, “I wouldn’t be any good at converting files if that’s what you're after, but I could definitely help you get Creme Brulee more noticed on the platforms they’re on already.” 

 

The man’s face lights up in interest, so you help him since his son seems as disinterested in helping him as Matthew is you. Though that doesn’t exactly stop the vet from saying one night, “Did I see you leaving Les McQueen’s house today?” Les McQueen is, it turns out, the name of the man that you’re helping. 

 

You feel a little defensive at that, though perhaps it is just a reflex action to Matthew’s questions by now. “Yeah,” you glance down at your knees and away from the television show you’ve been half-watching. Matthew stares at you as if he’s waiting for more, so you offer; “I'm working on something with him.”

 

Matthew’s curiosity peaks, _“What?”_

 

You shrug, which just makes a cloud cover up Matthew’s usual sunshine state. _Though,_ it occurs to you, he seems to have grown increasingly moody since you’ve been staying with him. You feel a bit sad about that. You’d rather not have that effect on people. 

 

“I see.” He lowers his face, lips pursed. 

 

“Wouldn't have thought it would have bothered you though. Me helping someone. I would have thought that you’d be pleased about it. At least I'm doing something with my time.” You find that suddenly you want his praise. That perhaps you’ve longed for it more than anybody else’s since you first came here. He was the first person to find you after all. The first person to be truly _kind._

 

“I'm glad you’re helping someone Adana,” he seems to force the words out of his mouth, before he leaves the room. You never hear the unspoken, _‘I just wish it was me.’_ All you can take note of is the disappointment in your own head because you’d never wanted Matthew to say those words to you like that. 

 

*

 

You try and forget about the strange behaviour of the man you live with and throw yourself into helping Les out instead. Once or twice a week you meet up whenever the pair of you have time for it, and in Les’s case isn’t at work, and start to put a blog together. To make it more interesting you film these little videos of Les introducing songs from Creme Brulee’s back catalogue or just talking about the band itself, all from a _‘secret location’-_ Les had seemed to think that would add to the drama of it and you’d agreed that it would probably create interest. He’s ecstatic whenever he gets any followers and he watches the number go up with bated breath. You’re glad that you’ve been able to help him and though he gives you a bit of money for your time you don’t accept much. You know that you _should,_ know that you _need_ to, but quite honestly you’d been happy to do the pitiful guy a favour. 

 

*

 

One day when you visit with Les he’s fizzing with energy. “Five more followers in just a few days!” he says in greeting to you, all teeth, bristling with energy beneath his open grey jacket. You smile at him and try and be equally as enthusiastic. 

 

He makes you both a cup of tea and you settle down by the coffee table in the vividly bright living room-although it makes your head swim you quite like it because it’s a world away from Matthew’s abode. You sit behind the laptop that you’d stolen from the Jobcentre and given to Les because it wasn’t as if Pauline had been using it. [You’d also swiped a cheap video recorder for the videos from the blind photographer’s shop-he hadn’t been making good use of it either!] “Do you know what?” Les half-turns to you now. “I was up thinking about all this last night and I was thinking”-you can tell from his breathless state that what he's got to say is very important to him-“Wouldn't it be good eh if we could somehow give Creme Brulee’s new fans, new music?” He looks at you hopefully now, as if you might be the answer to his prayers. You’re not quite sure though whether you’d call the followers of the blog _‘fans.’_ A more realistic interpretation might be to say that they’d clicked on the ‘Follow’ link accidentally and are really just as confused about the online world as Les is. You try and smile at him, even though you’re worried that this might be one step too far and might be the path to heartbreak for Les. 

 

 _“Well…_ we could try and recruit people to help us put out an appeal video and then try and use that to find the other members of Creme Brulee that way,” you begin, hoping your hesitancy might put him off. 

 

As you’d feared though Les finds the idea an all too appealing one and so together you begin to think about how it would all work and put things into place. 

 

In the end you decide to hold auditions.


	5. The Packer Olay & The Mayor That Swears

“You seem very busy of late,” Matthew says over dinner a couple of days before the auditions are due to take place.

 

“Well you know”-

 

“The auditions yes. I did put up a poster in the surgery like you asked me to,” Matthew tries not to wince, as he remembers how he’d had to re-create the poster you’d given him because the first had gotten splattered with blood. He hadn’t told you about that. It wouldn’t have done him any favours and it would have brought back the whole, ‘you not wanting to help him out at the surgery because he’s a haphazard vet,’ back in the open. “I was thinking though, that if you liked, you could try and have a better experience of the pub.” You look at him curiously now. Aside from when you’d first arrived and he’d offered you his place he’s never invited you anywhere. You’ve been living separate lives, and though that’s annoyed you at times you’ve been getting on with things. “With me. I er”-the back of his neck becomes suddenly very interesting to scratch-“There’s a pub quiz team. They use me because of my scientific knowledge and I’ve told them a little about you. They said that you’d be more than welcome to join us and I think it might be nice for you. To meet other people. Instead of hanging out with the same ones all the time I mean.” You frown at that. “Anyway,” he adds, “There’s a session tomorrow night if you’re up for it?”

 

“I really should be getting an early night tomorrow, what with the auditions being the next day and all, but thanks for asking me.”

 

“Right. Of course.” Matthew tries not to look too disappointed, but you can feel it all the way from the other side of the table and when he returns home the following night he goes upstairs without saying a word to you.

 

* 

 

Les and you sit behind a table at the back of an empty church hall. When you speak you’re afraid to do so in more than a hushed whisper, as the small place is very echoey. You’ve got a single camera rigged up to film the auditionees just in case you’re having trouble deciding whose help you could really do with. 

 

Not exactly sure how many people or _who_ will be turning up you take a quick sip of the bottled water that’s out amongst the papers in front of you and a very deep breath. 

 

_“He-y,_ you all right lass?” Les looks at you concernedly. “I didn't like saying anything, but you seem to be a bit stressed of late.” That’s true you think. You’d nearly snapped at him yesterday when you’d gone together to the library to print things off for today. The librarian with the booming voice hadn’t exactly helped your frazzled mind either. It had been like having someone shouting in your ear the whole time. “Nothing I can do to help out is there? I know you’ve helped me.”

 

Suddenly hit by it all and the tightrope of emotions that you’ve tried to balance of late-the strain between Matthew and you, not being able to get a job, worrying about these auditions-you sniff a bit. “It’s just”- you can’t seem to properly explain it and you don’t know what he’d make of it if you did. The fact that despite everything that’s been going on and the anxiety you feel about today Les is the one person in this whole town that you feel closest to and able to relate to. The _one_ person. “I'm fine.” You take a deep breath. “I just want things to go well today, that’s all, but thank you.” Les squeezes at your knee affectionately. “Would the first person out there like to come though please?” you call, elevating your voice, as you sit up a bit straighter. Les takes his hand off you. 

 

A mousy woman with a floppy felt hat peers her head around the door. “Hello. I'm Pam Doove,” she tells you.

 

“Hi Pam,” you force a watery smile on your face, gesturing that she should take centre stage. 

 

_“H-ey,_ that’s a nice flower in your cap that is.” Les points at the orange protruding from Pam’s navy hat and you chuckle a bit in spite of yourself. Les smiles at the sound. It might sound cheesy but laughter is his favourite type of music and boy has he had some laughs over the years! 

 

“Oh thank you.” Pam touches at it. 

 

“Is there any particular role you see for yourself Pam?” you try and keep going.

 

_“Well,”_ her hands fidget together in front of her stomach now and her movements remind you of a little bird that hops about the guttering, “I thought I could be the narrator of the appeal video.” She tilts her head at you. 

 

“That’s great Pam.” Again you try and smile fully at her. You find the paragraph on Creme Brulee that you’ve prepared for such a possibility and hand it out to her. 

 

“Oh, it’s quite a long one,” Pam remarks, giving a little jerk of her body. 

 

“I'm sure you’ll be fine,” you try and encourage her. 

 

Les nods. “In your own time then,” he says. 

 

Pam half-looks at the paper and thinks about things. “Is it all right if I go out and come back in again?”

 

“Of course Pam,” you smile at her, but it’s getting slightly strained by this point. 

 

Pam nods and scurries back out again. You wait for a moment, expecting a calm re-entry to happen, but _then-_

 

Pam bursts in through the door! With the paper clenched in her hand she moves, as if she’s battling her way to centre stage! “NO TEAM EIGHTY-ONE. ROWVISION. THE PACKER OLAY”-

 

“Right Pam. If I could just pause you there,” you manage to say, raising your hand when your initial bewilderment has worn off. Pam looks pained and frustrated. “You see the words are meant to be, ‘1981. Eurovision. The band Creme Brulee,’ and so on, but I think we just lost them.” You can’t believe what you’ve just heard.

 

_“Really?”_ Pam seems surprised. 

 

“Yep.” You nod your head vigorously. 

 

“Don’t know what you’ve been gargling with,” Les chuckles cheekily. 

 

“If we could just go again then Pam?” You wave your hand, not overly amused by Les’s words. 

 

She nods and swallows. Takes a deep breath. The same thing happens again though and her once clear diction is lost. 

 

“Right, I think we’ll just have to leave it there for today,” you relent, “Thanks for your time Pam.” 

 

She comes to slide the paper back on the table again and then scurries off. 

 

The next to come in are a group of three men called, Ollie, Dave and Phil.

 

“Good afternoon,” the glasses-wearing Ollie begins, “We are, ‘Legz Akimbo Theatre Company,’ and if you’ve gone to school recently-which it doesn’t look like you have then”- 

 

_“Ollie!”_ Dave hisses, leaning forwards slightly. 

 

You swallow and try to overlook the comment. 

 

“Then you might remember us from the play we put on last Christmas-no it wasn’t _called_ last Christmas”-there’s some muttering from the others-“You’re thinking of the other guy. The gay one.” Dave looks at Phil now who resolutely tries to ignore the attention of his friend. “You see the one we did was called, _‘White Chocolate,’_ and it was about racism, but we’re here today to do a little sketch we've put together called, _‘Vision Collision.’_ We’ll get your names in a minute because there are so many of them”-a plastic bag might as well drift by, whilst Les and you exchange a glance, you think you hear Phil swearing softly-“We've come though because we think the appeal video you’re making could do with some drama. That’s right D-R-A-M-A.” You’re not sure whether to laugh or scream by this point. “That’s where _we_ come in.” Ollie points and paces about a bit. 

 

They proceed to introduce different countries coming together to participate in the Eurovision Song Contest, singing a note or two and waving flags [occasionally the wrong one to go with the language] and you sort of weirdly enjoy it, but then the chaos precedes a little, giving way to a dramatized version of the 1981 heats. Ollie, who’s pretending to be a one-man version of Creme Brulee, hears that he hasn’t got any further and doesn’t take it well. 

 

“What do you mean I haven’t got through?” he turns on Phil now who had announced the result. Before Phil can repeat himself though Ollie ploughs on, “Oh, do you know what this reminds me of? This is _exactly_ what’s going to happen to you.” Phil raises his eyebrows. “Oh, don’t pretend that you don’t know! I’ve seen the audition tape you left in the back of the van. Perhaps _hoping_ that someone would see it, so that you didn't have to tell us about it.”

 

_“Ollie?”_ Dave questions, prompting his friend further. 

 

“Phil’s trying to leave us Dave, because he’s got _ambitions,”_ he says the word like it’s a curse. Phil sighs. _“Yeah.”_ Ollie’s chest thrusts at Phil now, whilst his clenched fists remain swung behind him. 

 

“It’s just about taking chances, whilst I get them,” Phil protests. “I'm not doing it maliciously.” 

 

_“ ‘Maliciously?’_ That’s a big word for you Phil. Are you sure you’re not doing it because we’re not good enough for you any more? No, not Ollie and Dave, your two best friends who got you here in the first place. You wouldn’t even be here without us. Without _me.”_ There is a lot of pointing going on now, both metaphorically and otherwise. “But no, even after all that you’d rather try your luck and get rejection letter after rejection letter because who would want you Phil, _eh?_ Who would want you?” 

 

“I think that’s enough.” You stand. Ollie’s head goes towards you and for a moment you think that he might spit at you like some sort of a demented llama. His bespectacled eyes seem aflame with heat. He changes his mind though and leads the others out. Phil looks forlorn, whilst Dave mutters bitterly. 

 

You sit down again with a sigh. 

 

“By ‘eck,” Les comments, patting a hand against your leg. 

 

_“Next!”_ you call, crisp and clear. Les withdraws his hand hurriedly. 

 

There’s such a long gap that you’re thinking of calling out again, but then a young teenager swoops in, decked out in a black cape that has red lining on it. He makes ‘swooshing’ sounds as he comes to take centre stage. You freeze up a little, as you realize what the act is more than likely going to involve, but force a smile at him all the same and try not to make Les any more worried about you than he probably is. 

 

“Hel”-

 

“My name is Dean Tavolouris,” he says in a mystic whisper, interrupting you. His thick glasses only add to the odd energy he brings. “Today I will be making the whole of Creme Brulee reappear and make the need for your appeal video nil.” Les looks like he might say, ‘By ’eck,’ again. “Underneath this ordinary looking piece of cloth, which _is_ an ordinary piece of cloth as it happens, I got it really cheap like, I will be”-a loud mobile phone ringtone breaks over Dean’s words now. He looks momentarily thrown. Les and you exchange a glance, but you feel a little relieved from the disruption. It makes some of your unease fade. Dean roots around in his pocket and pulls out his phone in frustration. _“Mam!”_ You bite at your lip, trying not to laugh suddenly, as your tension longs to be released. “I told you! I'm doing me audition-what today? I thought you were going tomorrow?” Dean looks at Les and you furtively, before he re-focuses his attention on his phone call again. “All right then, but not that one. I don’t like that one. _No!”_ There’s a wail of frustration, “That’s the one that I don’t like!” Dean stamps his foot in a strop. “All right. Bye then Mam.” Dean gets back to his audition, but when he only makes a scrunched up photo of Creme Brulee appear instead of the real thing and very nearly gets his fingers stuck on the glue of that you can tell that Les is disappointed. 

 

_“Next!”_ you cry, but no one appears. “Guess we’ll just have to do everything ourselves,” you stand up, still feeling a little bit knotted from the magic act and not wanting to be in the hall any more.

 

“I understand,” Les says sadly, “No point in waiting around.” Your heart sinks, “It’s a shit business, but that’s not to say that I don’t appreciate what you’ve done lass.” He tries to cheer himself up. You’ve been smashing.” All teeth he smiles at you.

 

You try and return the favour and feel a little bit better from his praise, but as Les and you leave one another you still feel a little bit disappointed about what’s happened that day. You seem to have hit a brick wall in terms of helping Les and you’re no further forward on the job front either. Aside from someone ringing you up last night and thinking you could offer them, _‘services,’_ you haven’t had any response to the card you’d stuck up. [“No my I.T qualifications aren't slang for something else.” You’d slammed the door of your bedroom shut a moment later because Matthew had seemed to be on the phone to someone too and you hadn’t been able to hear what the person at the end of the phone had been saying.] 

 

In the present you decide to head to the council offices to see if any jobs have come up. 

 

You’re barely at the door though when the man you know to be the mayor’s assistant-Murray Mint-comes scurrying out, bow tie on and looking extremely busy, clipboard in hand. “Excuse me?” You decide to try your luck. He glances absentmindedly over at you. “I was wondering if you know of any jobs that have come up?”

 

“No, no,” the man says, still walking and looking harried, “No jobs here.”

 

“I could help the mayor with something-?” you try and appeal to him. 

 

“You’ll be fucking lucky,” the mayor himself comes walking out. 

 

Murray winces and glances your way apologetically. 

 

“I understand.” You step back, letting both men through. With your next words you do even more a parody of Les, “All business is shit really.”

 

You stare after the two and as they disappear into the distance Hilary’s offer comes to you again. You hear him snarling it in a slightly different way in your head this time though, _‘You have to tell me if I can do anything for you. Nothing will change otherwise. I can’t help people who don’t talk to me.’_

 

It’s in that moment that you conclude that you’re done with not speaking.


	6. Angels & Devils

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick warning that this chapter features scenes of a sexual nature. ;)

Still, stepping into the butchers feels like announcing your presence in Hell itself, like inviting the flames to circle you and men to gather with their pitchforks until the Master of Hell himself, Hilary Briss, who is seemingly also immune to Hell’s effects what with him being as cold as a shark, makes his presence known. Yet you can’t avoid it. 

 

Of course what really happens when you step inside the butchers is that the shop’s bell goes off as it always does, letting out a faint chime and acting as a signal for those blue eyes to look at you. You swallow with some difficulty. It might have been a while since you’ve seen each other, but he still has that same effect on you. 

 

“I see you’ve returned.” He slices some meat up on a chopping board. You let your gaze fix on the swift movement of the knife. Up and down. Up and down it goes, as it tears off thin strips that could be your clothes. “Alone are you? Or perhaps you’ve got your bodyguard Dr. Chinnery outside since you’ve decided to venture in here yourself?” He has a little chuckle to himself. 

 

“You can laugh all you want Hilary,” you decide to get straight to the point. Raising yourself up you stalk across to the counter. “You told me to come to you if I ever needed something, so here I am.”

 

 _“Well,”_ Hilary enunciates the word properly and stops his movement with the knife, “I better listen then, and you better do some listening of your own Miss. Tane because I know _exactly_ what you want.” You’re resolute in trying to keep a level expression going, not wanting to give anything away. “You’re after a job.”

 

“So what if I am Hilary Briss? What can you offer me?” 

 

*

 

“Let me get this straight,” you say once Hilary is done talking, “You want me to wait outside the Magistrates for Maurice to finish work and then hand him a package?” It all sounds rather straightforward to you. _Too_ straightforward. 

 

“Not just _any_ package.” Hilary says with a wicked gleam about his eyes, head half-tilted. “A special delivery.” He draws something up to the top of the counter now and places it there. 

 

You step forwards and study the small, square white package. Light seems to shine upon it, reminding you of water as it glistens and twists. “What’s in it?” you ask him softly, looking back up at the butcher. Hilary barely has time to open his mouth, before you go on, “And don’t be telling me that it’s just a selection of cold meats Hilary Briss or that you’re merely helping out a hard working friend.” You point a finger at him. Your rings jangle about as you do so. He swallows, but looks more determined by your challenge. “I’ve known that something was going on from the moment that I stepped into this place and that man left here without buying anything.”

 

Hilary smiles ruefully, but still tries to get out of it. “Us local folk like to say hello to each other from time to time.” You shake your head. You’re not buying it. “I call it my, ‘special stuff,’” he says, knowing that you won’t be moved until you at least know part of the truth. Your ears prick up. Finally you’re getting some answers. “That’s what it is and don’t go asking me what’s in it because I won’t be telling you.” 

 

“Is that so?” you’re considerate now. “Well, what if I was to not take it to Maurice, but the authorities instead?” You know that you’re risking a lot by asking that, but you can’t help it all the same. 

 

Hilary breathes very deeply, as if he’s either got an incoming migraine or is trying to hold himself steady. You feel even more surprised when a policeman steps out from the back room and joins Hilary behind the counter. 

 

“Is there a problem Hilary?”

 

“Not at all Inspector Cox. I think the young Miss was about to take what’s hers and be on her way.”

 

“Like I should too I expect.” The officer walks out, but that’s not before you catch him running his tongue over his lips. 

 

Hilary’s eyes burn against yours. “I suppose you’re clear that we have an understanding? If you break it then my offer of help would forever be withdrawn to you?” You nod. 

 

Still you can’t help but push, “If I _did_ deliver the package though and came back here-? What would happen then?” you ask him.

 

“We’ll see,” Hilary smiles. He eyes you for one long moment, before he returns to his meat. The conversation seems to be over. 

 

*

 

You’ve never done drugs before but suddenly you have an idea how a dealer must feel. Your feet are clumsier than ever against the pavement, which a light rain is littering. The package feels too bulky from where it’s hopefully concealed beneath your bomber jacket. You daren’t look up that much yet worry that by not doing so you are just making yourself all the more conspicuous. You know that you mustn't do anything to be caught or picked up now because you will be on your own. Hilary won’t help you. 

 

You decide though to try and make things easier for yourself if you can by ordering a taxi. 

 

That doesn’t help things as much as you’d like. All throughout the journey the package seems to push against your heartbeat. You try and shift ever so slightly, attempting to move it without looking like you’re touching at your breast. 

 

“You on then?” the male cab driver says suddenly and you jump about a mile. The package moves into an even more uncomfortable position. 

 

 _“Excuse me?”_ your voice sounds raspy. 

 

“You look a bit pale is all. Can’t help but admire it to tell you the truth. I'm glad I won’t have to go through it after the sex change I'm saving up for. I'm trying to go on all those game shows to pay for it. Tried to get myself on ‘University Challenge,’ but they said I wasn’t a student. I told them, ‘That’s discrimination that is. I can’t be having that,’ but they still haven’t answered my letter. I suppose it didn't help that I wrote it all out in lippy.”

 

“Oh-Oh right I see.” You take that information in for a moment. “No, just feeling a bit uncomfortable is all.” You adjust your seatbelt. 

 

“Not because of _me_ I hope,” comes the threatening growl now and you think you see the lash covered eyes narrowing in the mirror. 

 

“No, no.” You almost dislodge the package and make it visible in your panic. You mutter to yourself, whilst your re-adjust it. The cab driver sends you a suspicious glance in the mirror, but thankfully doesn’t chuck you out.

 

* 

 

Once you come to be standing outside the Magistrates you take gulp after gulp of fresh air, breathing it in like a fish. 

 

The cool air soon wraps around you though, as does the sheet of rain and you feel almost glad for the extra fat of the package. It seems to have its uses after all you think, but still the longer you wait the more that you feel like you want the toilet and the clammier your hands become. You begin to step on the spot. 

 

Finally Maurice leaves the building. 

 

“Maurice? Excuse me? Maurice?” You rush around the other people that are there. Maurice stops and glances at you, as if he’s trying to work out whether you’ve previously encountered one another or not. “I’ve got a special delivery for you.” It’s only when Maurice’s head jerks back and he staggers away from you at seeing the corner of the white package that you realize what you’ve just said and how you’ve just used Hilary’s words. 

 

“Are you _mad?”_ Maurice hisses at you, flapping forwards like a bear swiping at fish. “No means no,” he sounds suddenly agonized. “Tell Hilary that.” He totters off, before you have a hope of persuading him. The words, “More than my job’s worth,” float back to you mournfully upon the air. 

 

* 

 

You’d thought that it had been bad enough going to ask Hilary for help in the first place, but going back there now, with your tail between your legs and having failed in your mission for him, is far, _far_ worse. You’d half-considered escaping with the special stuff, but you have no where else to go, let alone anyone who is willing to put you up in their house like Matthew has done, no matter how sour he’s been to you of late.

 

 _“And?”_ Hilary turns around from where he’s been putting a couple of washed knives away. With bated breath you show that you’ve still got the package and pull it out of your jacket. He frowns at it and glances to your left, then right. “With me.” He picks up a knife. For a moment you think that he’s leading you out of the shop and perhaps to a graveyard or something, so that he can bury both the package and you for good because he comes towards you. He reaches past, flips the sign that hangs from the door around, so that it says the shop is shut and leads you into the back room, plucking the package from your grasp as he goes. 

 

He puts the package back in the chest freezer that’s not too far from the entrance, pushes the lid back down tight on it, so that none of the cold air can escape and then turns back to you. The door has already fallen shut behind you. 

 

“What are you doing?” you ask him, though you think from the way that his eyes are roaming up and down you and his fingers twitching ever so slightly against the knife as he does so that you know. 

 

“Making do,” he growls, before he lays the knife down on top of the chest freezer and draws you close to him with one hand around your waist. The other quickly slides there. You blink, both from the shock of having his body flush against yours and from his hands-large and warm compared to this cold place-touching you. You place a hand tentatively on his own waist and feel how the slightly soft flesh yields beneath your fingers like you’re touching meat through vacuum packaging. You barely have time to assess how he feels though because his lips are on yours. Roughened against the cold they search against yours, nipping slightly as they find purchase. Satisfied he lets out a little creepy giggly purr, before he growls as he steers you back against the chest freezer itself. You can’t say that you feel half as content though and knock his white work cap off with your hand. It falls against his shoulder momentarily, before he shrugs it to the floor, letting out a little laugh, lips locking properly onto yours, before he pulls back again. Those blue eyes investigate yours and you touch at his sideburns. Your fingers explore against them. His own hands are hard against your thighs and you shiver and release a little gasp of exclamation, as they curve just beneath your posterior, arching you to him.

 

 _“Hilary…”_ Your hands grip his shoulders. Up close you can feel him pushing against you gently, growing hard. 

 

He kisses you again, liking your reaction to him. When he draws his face back he does so only a little this time, allowing his naughty tongue to escape from the cavern of his mouth and jerk against your nose ring. You let out a breath at the sensation of him. He pulls you to him again and your hands flutter against his shoulders, before they clutch on there more firmly. Your body writhes against his, stimulating him all the more. 

 

“You remind me of my wife…” he murmurs, slowly, _consideringly,_ like the way he’d first said your name when you’d met him all those weeks ago, only this time it’s like he can’t believe it. Can’t believe he’d found anyone with that essence, taste, flavour. 

 

You’re brought back to reality by his words. “Maybe I should”- You start to pull away.

 

 _“No,”_ he growls in a reflex action, pulling you to him. His head touches and arches against your neck, the top of his head jutting against your chin, as if to leave his scent to stir you up and make sure you don’t leave him. He lifts his head, eyes your flushed face approvingly, makes another little hum again, before he presses you up harder against the chest freezer. Your tongues touch like two swords, but before he can kiss you your hand arches back and you pick up the knife. The clatter of metal against the lid of the freezer has Hilary pulling away from you ever so slightly. “What are you intending to do with that?” He eyes you calculatingly, more intrigued than afraid, hands still upon your waist. 

 

You mouth his name and hold the flat blade of the knife against his cheek, before you run the tip of it down against the bob of his Adam’s apple and feel the pulse of him beneath it. You could make shark fin soup now and perhaps he knows it because his lips part, but other than that and perhaps the merest quickening of his heart he shows no reaction to you. _Or you could_ -you point it at his chest. He watches you. Yet do you want to do this? 

 

Frustrated by your inability to decide what you want you cut off the strings of Hilary’s apron in two sharp movements. Turned on his body lets out a pleasurable shudder. His apron drops like a curtain and pools around your feet, revealing the dark braces and stripy brown and purple shirt that lie beneath Hilary’s work coat. He lets out a rumble of laughter. You can feel the vibration of it against your chest and like the bobbing of a boat in a storm it makes you feel rather odd. His tongue protrudes as, angling his head with glimmering eyes, his chin brushes against yours. You accept the kiss, which he bestows upon you and, succumbing to the act, your arms wrap around his neck, the blade of his knife and the metal of your rings pressing ever so slightly against the messy seaweed of his hair. 

 

Sometime amidst the fervent kiss his hand reaches up and prises your fingers off the knife, taking it for his own. You mumble in protest. He throws the knife away. It crashes ungracefully against the floor and the pair of you draw back from one another for a moment to listen. When Hilary deems it safe he hoists you upon the chest freezer and you let out a squeak of protest. He just grins. 

 

You have sex twice. Once with your legs wrapped around him from your place on top of the chest freezer and him half-leaning over you, the thrust of his breath in your face. Secondly with you standing, pressed against the chest freezer, back turned to him. It is a relief to you that though he’d gripped at your breasts over the covering of your bra the second time he hadn’t removed your clothes more than he’d needed to. 

 

“Should have sliced and quartered you,” he says absentmindedly, head over your shoulder, eyes heavily lidded from all his activity. He withdraws from you and tucks himself back in. Slowly, and coming down from the high of what you’ve just done, you turn to him. He lifts up your underwear and trousers for you, before he raises his eyebrows, head slightly tilted in consideration. You still don’t know whether you should have done it or not, that’s the worst thing. You watch as he picks up the knife _and,_ without touching you, crosses it over your body. “From the moment that you came in.” He puts the knife down once more. 

 

“Why didn't you?” you ask him.

 

 _“Dunno…_ he says honestly, before he thinks about it. His eyes properly meet yours. “Maybe we could do this again some time?” It seems like he can’t come to any answers either, but he can’t stop the smile that spreads over his face.

 

 _“Yeah…”_ you’re breathless and finding it hard to look at him. 

 

Smirking he kisses at your hand, before he holds it in his and leads you out of the back room. His hand trails away from yours as, whilst he goes back to his natural habitat behind the counter, you linger by the doorway you’ve just come through, adjusting your top and feeling uncomfortable about the situation. 

 

“You better go,” he says, before he adds cheekily, “Wouldn't want anyone to come in and think it suspicious when you leave without purchasing anything.” Not quite sure about what he’s saying at first you look at him to see that he’s giving you a pointed stare. You almost laugh when you realize what he’s referring to, but then you nod, clear your throat and depart. 

 

*

 

You stumble about for a little while, not much feeling like going home or doing anything in particular despite the fact that you could really do with changing certain items of clothing right now. You end up heading into the church just so that you can sit down for a moment and try and process everything that’s happened.

 

* 

 

You’re at the end of one of the middle pews, smiling a little as you try and reassure yourself that you won’t be the first person to kiss a married man and feeling disgust because are you really someone who’s willing to disregard women in the same way your father had done? Treat them as disrespectfully as you’d held Brian to account for in your head when you’d first come to Royston Vasey? Are you no better than him? Is this really what you want? Don’t you want to settle down? Isn't that what you’ve been heading for all this time? All those questions and more are running through your head when you hear footsteps, as if someone’s coming into the church. They stop suddenly. You think that you hear the chink of booze in a bag and assume that someone must be coming in to take a sneaky drink. It’s a surprise to you when you look over your shoulder and see the vicar stood there. It seems to be a shock to her too. She frowns, clutching the blue bag loosely with one hand, eyes boring into yours. 

 

“I suppose you’ve come to confess?” she’s immediately disapproving of you. You shake your head and look to the front again. “Well, what have you come here for then?” She makes you jump now. “You better not have been spilling your jelly all over my polished pews.” Swallowing you get up with an embarrassing squelch. Her already dark eyes go that way further still, as though she’d just heard you though you inwardly tell yourself that she probably hadn’t. 

 

“I’ll just go.” You hurriedly move past her. 

 

 _“Yeah.”_ She nods her head sagely and the alcohol in her bag chinks once more. “Go on, get out of here.” Her rant follows you out of the church. “Getting your fish fingers everywhere. Thinking of touching yourself every hour God sends. Whatever’s wrong with you?”

 

Feeling guiltier for what you’ve just done you dash home, nearly bumping into everyone and tripping over as you go. When you get through the door you take a very large breath in relief, but feel stunned again when you see Matthew coming from the kitchen. His hands look a little shiny and wet as if he’s just washed them. 

 

“Oh, oh Adana, wasn’t expecting you back quite so”-

 

“Is that _blood_ on your jumper?” you interrupt him, for there seems to be unusual patches on his diamond top. His mouth opens and closes. “Did something happen to you?” His hair looks a mess too. All spiked up with bits of fluff and quite possibly blood there too.

 

“You probably already know”-

 

“No, no I don’t,” you protest loudly, fed up of him and wishing that he’d finally tell you what’s going on. It appears that like Hilary had earlier he knows that you’re not going to be one for budging until you get answers today. He goes to the living room in a resigned sort of fashion and you follow after him doggedly. You both take up your usual armchairs, he with a sigh, and you with an ounce of worry inside you. “What’s gone on?”

 

“I might be more willing to tell you if you’d ever asked about me,” he acknowledges. 

 

You feel a little stung by that. “You haven’t exactly delved much into my history _either_ Matthew.” 

 

He takes a deep breath now, one hand curled against his knee, head bowed and you realize that this frustration has been building inside him for some time. “The point is,” he begins sharply now, before his voice gets progressively weaker, “Is that, like you must be aware of, I'm not a very good vet and”-

 

“What do you mean?” You don’t understand. You’d thought that he was a _great_ vet. That he lived a simple, but respected life. You’d never heard any complaints about him. You’d been a little bit jealous of the way he seemed to have things made.

 

“I _mean,”_ he sighs a little, as he eyes you a little suspiciously. He really doesn’t know _why_ he has to explain things when you must already know what he’s referring to, “That accidents tend to happen when I'm around and bad things occur. _Deaths…_ which is sort of the way I was starting to feel our relationship was going.” You stare at him, feeling a little stunned by the confession. He offers you a weak smile and as he looks at you his eyes are tinged with red. You slide further to the end of your armchair and feel bad as your hands tangle together. “I suppose when you first moved in”-he looks down, trying to explain his thoughts more clearly to you-“I thought that maybe…we might have some fun together. I felt glad for the company actually.” His eyes dart against yours briefly and he winces at himself. You feel like you’re both uncomfortable and want to hear more. “That’s why I left that magazine in your room”-

 

 _“Oh?_ That was a deliberate thing?” You feel all the more awkward.

 

“Yes.” He nods. “I thought it might let you know that I wouldn’t mind terribly if-if you decided to join me in my room that night. _Any_ night.” His eyes meet yours now and he seems to be struggling to look at you. 

 

 _“Right…”_ you don’t know what else you’re meant to say to his earnest face. 

 

“I also tried to ring you. Do you remember? I pretended that I thought you were offering er… _services”-_ he smiles sheepishly at that-“Just after you put that advert up. I was trying to disguise my voice a little, but not too much, so that you might realize it was me. I invited you to that quiz too of course, but that would have been a disaster.” He scratches at his hair. “The captain of our team is a very passionate quizzer, but he has tourette's, which get worse when he’s feeling competitive. His illness makes him shout out the wrong answer. He gets all the more eager to be dominant because of that. Anyway…I er, all that was because I was hoping you might be able to let me in… _somehow._ That’s why I felt annoyed when you started helping Les because it felt like you were being open with everyone but me when I'm the one you live with. It just felt like you were being mysterious for mysterious sake.”

 

“I-I’ve had difficult things happen in the past myself.” Realizing that it’s your turn to talk and knowing that it’s more than time that you do so you bow your head. You still find it difficult-getting these words out. You also find looking into those still hopeful eyes hard. “I could have done with some more understanding from you. You _knew,_ out of everyone here, that I’d run away, but you never asked me where from.” He looks at you imploringly now and feels annoyed with himself for not asking when he _had_ wondered. “The _circus”-_ you flinch a bit just from the memory of it and force your eyes on him. His face is sympathetic and open. His eyebrows slope down over sad eyes. “I know most people run away _to_ the circus”-your hands fidget now and you feel all the sillier-“But I ran away from it.” You clear your throat. “My father”-you try again-“My father, they call him Papa Lazarou. Tane’s not my real surname you see”-you look at him almost apologetically now, yet you hope he’ll understand-“He-he treated me badly from a young age. When I left-When I left I couldn't keep his name. Couldn't bear to.” 

 

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

 

“Yeah.” You nod at him now. “I’ve never known who my mother was, but he-my father-he saw me playing with pink foundation one day, like all children do-experiment and dress up”-Matthew smiles at that, picturing the scene-“But he didn't leave it there. He was thrilled. He showed me how to apply it properly. Made me cover myself in it until my skin, which is naturally both black and white you see, became fully white.” You fiddle with your hair again, knowing that’s a bit odd. “Applying it so constantly from such a young age has made me feel…rather self-conscious.” Your hands tangle together anxiously and Matthew makes a soothing sound. You flinch at first, thinking that he’s treating you like one of his animals, just like your father had, but then you realize the gesture had been made in good faith and kindness and smile at him gratefully. It feels odd, having someone treat you that way. “I’ve been using it a bit still. I can’t quite break the habit. Pull the plaster off.” Matthew looks pityingly at you and you find that you don’t quite hate it. “I’ve managed to get it, so I stop when my skin is tanned, but I look quite a mess with my clothes off for a twenty year-old.” You think about that for a moment. Matthew watches you carefully. “When I was younger my father became obsessed with the idea of me doing good on the tightrope. I’d let him down by not being musical, so I couldn't let him down again, but I was useless at it. I would plummet to the ground like a rocket when I would fall off and because he made me practice at such a height with no safety net my skin got rather bruised. He used to _laugh…”_ Matthew makes a fierce sound in your honour. You smile at him feeling a little encouraged. “He used to tease me”-your throat feels choked and your hands shake a little-“Say that when I was older, and I know this will probably sound a little strange to you, but he could do magic”-

 

“I-I can do magic,” Matthew is hesitant as soon as he realizes that he’s drawing a line of similarity between himself and your father. “Nothing too complicated though,” he tries to rescue the situation, not wanting to hinder the progress you’ve made. 

 

“Yes, well this was significantly more advanced. He used to tell me that when I was older he would turn me into a monkey, because he was able to you know, turn people into animals, and then I would be a monkey who was afraid to climb heights, but they would prod and poke until I was up there. I’d be something for the crowd to laugh at and though I would be able to voice my fear in a way that an animal can’t I wouldn’t be able to escape my fate.”

 

Something clicks inside Matthew’s head at that point. “You really didn't know?” You look at him in confusion. “You hadn’t exactly changed your mind about helping me in the surgery. It’s because animals frighten you.” 

 

“Yes.” You nod. “They remind me of what he does and I think of all that human trapped inside an animal’s body and…it makes me shiver. It freaks me out.” You come out of a deep thought and re-focus your eyes upon his. You tuck your hair back. “I hated it there, I really did, so I finally got up enough nerve to run away. I fled to a busy little town and managed to do a few courses and things, improve my knowledge in other areas”-Matthew nods encouragingly-“I even managed to get a little job. It wasn’t much. Only some bar work”-your eyes falter and your head jerks from your lack of confidence and how he might receive your words-“But it meant everything to me-the chance to be independent.” Matthew smiles. You sound so wistful. He wishes he’d known this part of you all along. How differently he would have treated you! “Then he found me.” You swallow tersely. “I had just over three months of happiness, of refuge, before he found me again. I was working one night and it was fairly busy. I glanced across in between serving customers and saw him by the far wall.” As you talk you can see it. Feel the way that though his face had been partially obscured by a hood his dark eyes had made you shiver. They’d been like pits or endless tunnels that you had no escape from-that sewer again. He’d found you in your nightmares and he’d found you in real life. Those eyes had stared at you dully. _Transfixed._ “He did this little swagger as he came for me,” you tell Matthew who’s watching you with a most serious expression upon his face. “He told me that I was his daughter, that I would _always_ be his daughter, that I could never escape it. He took me to where our home was that week.” You look pained. “I escaped him again, before he could turn me into the monkey that he’d always threatened to. I ran and when I was too exhausted to carry on any more and the mist seemed to swallow me up whole I stopped here. It probably didn't make much sense to you back then, but my father used to keep women in cages and call everyone, ‘Dave,’ no matter what their gender was and that’s why, when I came here, and I heard that man objectifying women it made me feel as if I could never really escape my past. No matter how far I ran. That’s what made me drink, the thought of all that, but I know that I'm not perfect either. I’ve got him inside me you see.” Your experiences in Royston Vasey have taught you that much. “I know that now.” 

 

“You’ve been brave enough to tell me everything.” You nod. “I'm sure that’s something he’d never do, tell anyone what’s been on his mind…I won’t let him take you away if he finds you. That is if-if you want to stay here?”

 

You’re not sure if Matthew will have much choice if your father comes for you, but you appreciate the sentiment all the same. “I think I do- _now.”_ You smile. 

 

The cloud escapes Matthew’s face as the sun shines upon it again. “I think maybe we should go to the surgery.” He stands. 

 

You follow suit questioningly, but trusting him let him take you there, allowing him to delicately hold your hand as he does so. You feel happy. For the first time in a long time it feels like all the cobwebs and everything else has blown away and you can just feel happy. There’s no room for anything else. 

 

He unlocks the door and gives you a more genuine smile than the tight ones that have been littering his face recently, seemingly a little more unburdened like you, before he steers you into the back room. Feeling a little ill at ease once more with the animal posters, disinfectant smell and also just through being there, you stand by the examination table as Matthew darts out again. 

 

He returns a moment or two later carrying a mostly white rabbit, which has patches of tawny brown upon it. 

 

You try not to stiffen up and smile at the creature, though your heartbeat does increase. 

 

Matthew joins you and places the rabbit down upon the table. “Thought we could work on a little project together,” he says, “Maybe I’ll be able to help this one out and you’ll lose some of your fear around animals, even if it’s just the smaller creatures.”

 

You nod, liking the idea very much and tentatively touch at the back of the rabbit’s head. Its fur feels soft and it reassures you. It’s so different from human skin. You think that as long as you don’t see its eyes and the soul within then you might be all right.

 

“There we go,” Matthew tells you encouragingly, placing his hand on top of yours. The paleness of it covers up some of your tanned skin and rings. You look at him. You hadn’t realized how close you were standing. Even just from turning your head you can feel the puff of his breath against you. Your eyes dart to his lips. He smiles crookedly, feeling optimistic. Your eyes go back to his. Slowly, and tentatively, you cup at his cheek with your hand and place the gentlest of kisses upon his lips. It couldn't be more different from your interaction with Hilary earlier. Matthew gives a soft, _‘Oh,’_ of surprise and his hand knocks against yours upon the rabbit as he closes his eyes, taking in the sensation. He opens them once more, as you draw further back. You smile at him, as you study his face and see the way that the skin by his eyes crinkles. He smiles in a flustered fashion. 

 

_“Er”-_

 

“I think I’ll go and see if I can find some dinner for us tonight,” you rescue him, sparing his feelings like he had yours earlier. “How about you put the rabbit away, go home and take a shower, whilst you wait? I won’t be long. Then we could talk some more?” you suggest. 

 

“All right.” Matthew nods, liking the sound of that. You kiss at his cheek. 

 

You leave each other happily, full of satisfaction from what has already happened and the promise of what is yet to come.

 

*

 

As you hurry and make your way through town though, eager to return home, though you’re still happy you start to grow a little more despondent. Most of the shops have already closed and the ones that are still open aren't ones where you can get dinner from. You don’t go to the butchers-it would be too awkward after everything-and you miss Hilary glancing at you curiously from his place behind the counter as you pass, no doubt wondering about the bounce to your step and perhaps assuming it’s because of him and that you’ve decided to be more confident about the situation. Whilst he has a little smile to himself you decide to go a little further afield, thinking and hoping that there might be a suitable shop just outside of town. 

 

*

 

You end up drifting onto the moors themselves and though you think that you’ll probably end up going home with nothing because you can’t see how anything good could be out here your spirits start to return nonetheless. Your head clears. The breeze ruffles pleasantly at your hair, toying and teasing with it, and you almost feel like you could burst into song. You can’t know that Matthew feels equally at peace as he has his shower or how he hums as he washes his hair. 

 

To your surprise you spot an isolated building and probably your last chance at getting dinner. You’ll just have to make do with whatever’s left in the house otherwise, though a passing thought like a butterfly tells you that it might be nice to cook alongside Matthew, rather than just one of you taking up the duties, now you’ve got more of an understanding…

 

Still, your heart jolts happily when, as you get closer, you can see the sign above the shop more clearly: _‘Local Shop.’_

 

“Thank God,” you mutter, the pace of your steps increasing, as you move carefully towards it. 

 

As you go in though, and the bell gives off a chime, you start to become less optimistic. The shop looks more like a barn that’s been abandoned and left with clutter inside it. Everything looks old and as if they have been in the exact same place as they are now for years. You’re surprised that nothing appears to be cobweb ridden. _‘There must be someone here,’_ you think, _‘Someone taking care of all the things.’_ You glance around again. No sign of any large meals or anything like that, but perhaps you could find a drink or a snack for Matthew and yourself, at least you’d be returning with something then. It would be better than nothing-

 

Something shines out to you in the light, like Hilary’s eyes and the way that you’d envisioned them, whilst you’d been at the Jobcentre, it calls out to you. You approach the counter where the light is coming from without thinking through what you’re doing. You realize it is coming from the glass of a collection of pretty snowstorms that lie on a shelf by the counter. You touch at one of them, sending a few threads of fake snow that must have gotten stuck to the top when someone had last held it, shivering down. 

 

 _“Yes?_ Can I help you?” a woman’s voice suddenly comes and you withdraw your hand from the snowstorm suddenly. Your heart racing you see that there is now someone behind the counter. Dressed in muted colours and with a shawl upon her hair you see that she has a hunched posture, upturned nose and reminds you somewhat of a tortoise who carries its heavy shell, not wanting to be disturbed. 

 

Your throat slightly dry you manage, “Yes…I was wondering if you had a can of coke or something?”

 

“I can I can’t?” the woman says now, evidently confused. She tilts her head and watches you in fascination. 

 

You wonder if this is going to be another charity shop experience and decide to try and speak up a little. “Yes,” you say with your voice slightly raised, “You see my friend and I”-

 

“Blub, blub, blub,” she says, nodding each time that she enunciates the word.

 

 _“Yes,”_ you laugh a little awkwardly at that, reminding yourself a little of Matthew in the charity shop that first day in Royston Vasey. The memory of it and both how far you’ve come and what has happened since makes you blush. “We er-we’re not very good at shopping-food shopping I mean,” you correct yourself, “Busy people you see.” She nods at you and you hope that she might actually understand what you’re saying. “Anyway, everywhere else is shut. You are open aren't you?” you sound anxious now. “I just thought I’d get a few things.”

 

“Yes, this is a local shop. We’re always open”-

 

“Oh good,” you can’t help but express your relief at that. 

 

“But you’re not local are you? Not with all _those_ colours in your hair.” She reaches a hand towards you and your hair, which is only a mix of black and blue, as if she wants to feel. 

 

Your mouth opens falteringly. You let her touch your hair briefly and then you draw back again, thinking about what she’s just said. A flash of you moving about from place to place and the way that you’d spent your childhood comes to you, but then you tell her, “I’d like to be. Local I mean. I really would.” You’re sure of that now. 

 

The woman stares at you with wonderment in her eyes, but then-

 

“Hello, hello. Tubbs? What’s all this shouting? We’ll have no trouble here. This is a local shop for local people, there’s nothing for you here.” A man appears. Slightly taller than the woman he stands beside her. Also with an upturned nose you catch sight of the rather small, pointed teeth that he has and you don’t know if it’s that or the aura about him, but you begin to feel tense. Your heart beats erratically inside your chest and you take a couple of steps back. 

 

“No trouble here.” You raise your hands. “I just wanted a couple of things”-

 

“She covets the precious things in the shop!” the woman tells the man who must be her husband in a cryptic whisper. 

 

“Only a can of coke and a snack or something. Matthew would probably prefer water or tea. If it’s too much trouble though then I can”-

 

“She _wants_ to be local!” the woman’s voice rises above yours in a shrill accusation. 

 

“Look here!” the man seems to take offence at such a thing. He moves around the counter towards you and with your hands still raised you step back. “A person cannot just _become_ local!”-

 

“Otherwise we could move to Swansea”- the woman says wistfully. 

 

“Hush Tubbs. There’s no such thing.” The man glances over his shoulder at her. You notice that the woman appears disappointed by the fact, but she nods all the same, assuming her husband is much more knowing about these things. “You are either born local or you are not.” The man turns back to you again. 

 

You open your mouth falteringly; hesitant about whether you should say what you’d like to or not. You want to tell him that although you expect that a lot of people feel the way he does you’ve been fighting to belong somewhere your whole life and will continue to do so. You think you might have found that place now though. A place where you can settle down in. The man’s eyes flash however and you lose your nerve. “I’ll just be off then”-

 

 _“Off?”_ the man gets a wicked grin about his face and though you’d thought Hilary cold this man seems to be icy the whole way through with nothing malleable about his soul at all. You’ve only ever met one person who had been like that before and that was your father. You continue to step back and he insists on moving towards you. “I don’t think so.” You open your mouth. “We cannot just let you go off and tell your own kind about us, we have peace here, and that is how it shall stay”-

 

You take the chance, whilst you can. Whilst he’s soliloquising you dart around and rush out the door. The bell lets out an angry clang. You can hear the woman shouting, the man saying something frantically to her. You hurry back across the moors, back towards the town. You can see it down in front of you. Laid out like a map it is the place of your future. The place of waking up on lazy Sundays to the sun and Matthew, who has just got out of bed. You would have told him by then that you _know_ not all men are like that. That you know _he’s_ not like that. Despite his imperfections he’s a good man. You know that now. Maybe you’ll finally join him on the pub quiz team. Hear him excitedly coming home one day. He’ll tell you then that there is a horse, which needs to be treated and you should go with him to get used to such a creature. He’ll be more confident in his practice, more able. You’ll follow him and touch at the horse’s shoulder, see Matthew’s hand coming to cover yours encouragingly just as it had done that first time with the rabbit. There will be a ring on Matthew’s left hand. A ring that is not yet there and a child who you will one day warn not to go on the moors. Even though the thought of your child on the moors and coming across this place is a dire one you smile in the present at the thought of having a son or daughter with Matthew, at the prospect of him being your husband then, but when you hear a shifting movement upon the horse you’re back in the cloud of what hasn’t happened yet and you look up. You’ve been so caught up with the creature itself that you hadn’t even come to the conclusion that it had a rider upon it. You see a familiar looking boot, shiny, expensive clothes, scarlet in colour and a black and white face. It looks down at you, a mischievous smile playing about its owner’s lips. 

 

 _“No…”_ you mutter, as your body writhes upon the moor, barely conscious, as its been struck by a crossbow bolt. 

 

“Hello Dave.” The face of your father looms over yours. “I was wrong about you before you know. I said you were like a monkey…” there comes a considering wiggle of his fingers, “But you’re more like a cow. It’s why those men like you…”

 

*

 

Back in Royston Vasey Matthew waits. Blond hair still damp from his shower he will sit down upon his usual armchair and watch the ticking of the carriage clock, which he has drawn down in front of him. As time passes he will head out of the house and seek, but not find you. He will return to his own note, which he’d left in the house- _‘Adana, nothing to worry about if you’ve nipped back in the mean time. You were taking a while, so I just thought I’d take a look for you. I hope everything is all right. Loving regards-Matthew.’_ He’d hoped you would have returned by now. Hoped his action would be something that you’d find sweet.  
Papa Lazarou and everything you’ve told him will lurk in his mind over the next few days, but he finds the idea of you going missing on the very day that you’d told him about such things a slightly ludicrous one. He will report your disappearance just in case though. He will even put up a, ‘Missing’ poster in the front of the surgery and be excited when he catches Hilary staring at it for a fraction too long. Cursing, but not too aggrieved all the same, the butcher will move away when he catches Matthew’s gaze on him and Matthew, his hands smeared in blood, will go out and call after him. The butcher will be vague though, declaring that though he’d seen you on the day of your disappearance he hasn’t seen you since. Matthew will be disappointed by the fact. Maybe he’ll wonder whether Hilary had anything to do with your disappearance, but dismiss it just like he’s basically dismissed the idea of your father being responsible. 

 

A few years later though when Papa Lazarou’s Circus comes to town, Matthew, just to be sure and his hopes raised in spite of himself that he might finally get some answers about you, will go and have them dashed when he hears and sees nothing about you even though he’d tried to get through the protection of dwarves and circus freaks to speak to your father. He’ll remember how you’d said that you’d run away even before the time you’d met him though and think that even if you’d been captured that’s what you’ve probably done this time. Run away and started afresh somewhere new. For even if you’re alive why would you come back to Royston Vasey if that’s where you’d been captured before? He doesn’t realize that it’s only your heart that had been captured in this place. He starts to become accustomed to the fact that he’ll never see you again and that night peels the ‘Missing’ poster down from his surgery. He is just as hapless a vet as ever. 

 

Meanwhile, Hilary, in that same year, will end up fleeing abroad to the Caribbean and selling his special stuff there, as he gets rumbled in Royston Vasey after Maurice’s wife, Eunice, starts selling the special stuff en masse and there’s a nosebleed epidemic.

 

Someone else who will surprisingly end up abroad is Les. Closer to the beginning of your disappearance he’d started to wonder if you’d just moved on and away like most things and people do in his life. He’d used the blog you’d set up together for a couple of weeks though and talked to you out loud whenever he’d gotten a comment or follower, but the deafening silence that had met him and the fact that you hadn’t even been in the same town as him any more had made his enthusiasm for it dwindle. The blog had been left online though-Les had no clue how to take it off after all-but he hadn’t looked at it again. Hadn't seen the numerous messages that he’d gotten from his fans in Herzlovakia, which had started just a month later and won’t realize about such fans existence until years later, when, as he deals with a customer in the floor polishing business he now runs, he’ll be shown footage of his vast fan base and give his dream one last go, flying out to Herzlovakia. It’s there that he’ll be directed towards the messages that had been left on his blog and he’ll wistfully think of you again. 

 

Neither he, Hilary nor Matthew though will ever find out what happened to you and none of them will ever make the connection between the _‘Local Shop’_ and your disappearance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you think if you get a moment. :)


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